


a decade of rosary, a fine man's passed

by mailroomy



Category: Boondock Saints (1999)
Genre: Other, Smarm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-03
Updated: 2010-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-05 17:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mailroomy/pseuds/mailroomy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>hold hands then say goodbye from afar. (warnings for: twin-smarm, unwitting voyeurism, character death)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hold Hands

When they were mere children, unwise to the ways of the world, they'd skip into puddles and roll out of it. They'd take turns pushing swings or race to get higher and reach for the blinding sun.

Monkey bars, see-saws, merry-go-rounds.

They played and wreak havoc until the cows mooed the sun to set and Ma would scream and shout from three blocks down.

Then his brother would offer his right hand, and he would take it without hesitation. They would swing their hands, stretched out in front of them, and long behind them. And those were happy days.

Time passed and holding hands in public weren't the greatest thing to do for young men growing up in times of Troubles. It was a luxury they couldn't afford.

At night he would feign sleep and wait for his brother to sleep, and he would look at his hands, empty and bereft. He would try to remember what it felt like to have a loving hand holding his, and him holding back. Sometimes he wondered whether his brother felt the same loss.

They held hands briefly in semi-public, in the tattoo parlour, the happy ditty of his heart obscured by swearwords, the whirr of tattoo pens, and soft chuckles from that kindly tattooist.

They weren't tattoo junkies. It's just an excuse for them to hold hands in public.

* * *

It was supposed to be a routine hit, and they were supposed to be immortal. Or maybe all the news reports had gotten into their heads.

So he watched his brother fall, red blood rose blooming on his back, his chest, and he fall backwards into a puddle. The shooter ran, alive but not for long.

He tried to reach out to his brother, but he was too late, time moved on its own volition, never his. And he saw his brother fall, fall, fall, away from him.

It was the last time they held hands in public. He held on, in that puddle of brown sludge and brown-red blood, in whitewashed ambulance, his brother's warmth leeching out into him, until their hands turned cold.


	2. Then Say Goodbye

How do you recite an elegy, I wonder, when the dead is yourself? But I suppose, with an audience of one, I needn't worry. No one to pass judgement, save maybe God, but God has taken you away from me. Ma would probably wash my mouth with soap and Da would demand harsh penance for blasphemy, but as I said, no one's here, except you. Us. Except there's no more us.

Though I hold you in my heart, dear brother, there's no more us.

Can you see? How disgustingly blue the sky is, how infuriatingly cheerful these clouds floating across Tir-Tuathail? The river running merrily onward down its ancient place. This is nature, holding an Irish wake for you. How beloved must you have been, to this land we seldom see.

I've taken you to this place, dear brother, as we've promised each other, the land of our ancestors. They say we were descendants of kings, and yet there's no riches in the world could buy me happiness if it meant for me to be alone.

And no riches would bring you back.

So I am doomed, already standing with the Dead.

And Arigna mocks me, I feel. The wind plays little ditties through green leaves. The ancient earth, this mount upon which our forefathers toiled, lived, and died. So many dead before us, upon us, and after us, so many that our lives should not really matter. We soldiers of Death,

_Óir do shíleas féinig, ni maródh an saol tu._

And yet, mortal still. Mortal always.

You are not merely part, half, of my soul. We are one you and I, you've said it, said it a million times, with every breath you exhale, the words tumbling out of your mouth, but no more.

The blue above my head, the green beneath my feet. The setting sun will light the world afire, red, orange, then dark coal embers. And yet, grey it will be when dawn arrives, for I stand with the Dead.

I will not weep nor will I laugh. I will not falter nor will I stand as tall. I will not, do not, pray for heaven, neither for hell, nor purgatory. Just for the time we will meet again.

My love and my delight.

_Mo ghrá thu go daingean._


	3. From Afar

Smecker watches from afar though he wishes to be near, to offer a pat on the shoulders, a show of friendship, some way to show how he cares about them. Though of course not as much as they care about each other. Their devotion to each other was transcendent and at times, extremely brilliant to behold.

And, aside from the wind playing the trees and occasional tall grass as windpipe, rousing Eire's lament, all is quiet.

Odd that, as these two boys are usually chatty. Even as they deliver their judgment, their recitation holding a note of finality within them. But now, not two anymore, just one. Maybe when you've had your soul ripped away from you, there's nothing left but silence, a cry that could not be voiced. For what are words when finally faced with such absolute ruin.

_Lacrimosa dies illa, qua resurget et favilla_, his mind sighed to the notes of opera in his head. He never thought the two would be so severely cleaved apart, one departing, the other bereft, arms empty, no longer able to tend, to tease, to love, to care.

The public thought they were equally saints and damnable sinners, harbingers of death and yet, possibly saviors. But this figure, alone and broken, cradling a black box in his arms so tightly, unwilling to let go, looked more a foot soldier, a lackey, rather than one half of the Gods of War.

_Ares thus cursed by all the blood he spilled._

Will there be wailing and gnashing of teeth? _our father who art in heaven, bellowed be thy name_, the screams of one's torn soul, upon whose deaf ears shall they fall?

The silent body, just over there; easily reached with less than a dozen long strides (and he does have long legs), yet, so far so unreachable, closed off to the world that even his parent's love could not reach.

The boy, the man now, who knows the ultimate loss, crouched, placed the black box on the grass, green grass befitting of the emerald isle of their forefathers, the ancient blood that runs in their veins. The lid slides easily, more so than that single drop of tear hanging upon the remaining brother's lash, gleaming under the slanting sun.

Just then the wind picks up, a swirling gush of sweet smelling herbs, the scent of clear river water, of hope and death, the morbidity of simply being alive. It stirred the ashes within the box.

Smecker watches, rooted to his spot, couldn't move a jot even if he wants to.

The ashes stir, picked out of the box. Swirls like a small dusty hurricane. And the living brother steps forward into his brother's ashes, unwilling to let go, as a chant tumbles out of his lips. It isn't the cold finality of their killing rituals, more of a benediction. _Mo ghrá thu go daingean._

Smecker feels tears gather in his eyes. Awed. Jealous to have witnessed such lament, wonders whether he will find someone who would miss him that way, whether there is someone out there he would lament in such away.

Blinking the tears away, letting them slide upon his wind-parched cheeks, he sees them both. _dona eis requiem._

**Author's Note:**

> started life as commentfics for the following prompts:  
> 1\. "holding hands in public" from oteap   
> 2\. "i stood with the dead" from violet_eyes  
> 3\. "care" from sour_louise


End file.
